


But the Loom of Life Never Stops

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post - Half-Blood Prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of Dumbledore, Remus tracks down Severus in hiding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But the Loom of Life Never Stops

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Snupin Santa Holiday](http://snupinsanta.annex-files.com/index.php) exchange 2013. The prompt was: _Not established relationship. R or NC-17. After the death of Dumbledore, R searches for S and for answers. He finds him in hiding and they argue, perhaps even fight, but end up in bed. Tenderness, not hate sex, comforting of mutual pain. In the morning, they must go their separate ways. Tone: bittersweet_
> 
> Title lifted from Henry Ward Beecher's _Life Thoughts_ : "We sleep, but the loom of life never stops; and the pattern which was weaving when the sun went down is weaving when it comes up tomorrow."

_“To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.”_  
George MacDonald

1.  
Candyfloss. Sweet, shockingly pink, a rare treat that mum would only ever allow once in a blue moon. Sweet, cloying pink candyfloss that coated his tongue and mouth in a greasy film long after it had gone and that made him feel sick when he’d had too much. And it was almost always too much. 

Remus was a little boy again, confused, scared and nauseated. He blinked his eyes open and forced himself to breathe slowly and lie still until the world stopped spinning. The long-lost sensation of childish delights and childish anxieties evaporated. What had made him think of candyfloss? It must have been a dream he could not remember. His head was filled with cotton wool, that was it, soft, yet thick and substantial and unyielding. And pink. He was enveloped in pinkness, and the scent of strawberries. 

Remus groaned, blinking furiously against the colours spinning before his eyes, and swallowed down the nausea. He knew how to do that, at least.

Dawn had just broken, and the first tentative rays of the morning sun were sneaking slowly into the room that he inhabited with his… fiancée. Dora was fast asleep; she had cried a lot yesterday, the day that had followed the nightmarish ordeal, a day that had been spent in frantic and agonising pursuit of equilibrium. Dumbledore was dead, and he, Remus, had somehow got engaged. He wasn’t clear on the details, of neither of the two events, and as long as his head remained stuffed with soft, syrupy candyfloss, there would be no chance in hell he’d figure them out. What he needed was a sharp edge.

Carefully, so as to not disturb the woman sleeping beside him, he extricated his limbs from around the delicate body burrowed under the duvet. He wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to do, even as he washed in the poky little bathroom off the kitchen and dressed with numb hands. He couldn’t stay here, and he could not go back to Hogwarts, not yet. His options, he mused, looking himself sternly in the eyes in the spotted, voiceless mirror, were somewhat limited. 

The moment the door closed behind him, he felt less light-headed. Memories of the previous day began to trickle in – singed hair and smoke, high-pitched cries and curses, the heat of fear and the cold of death – and the last time that had happened, almost sixteen years ago, he had run away and not come back for years. He could not run away this time, though, older, wearier, less scared, more engaged as he was. He wasn’t sure whether, in all those years, he had learned to stand his ground and fight or whether he was simply too tired to run. Funny how under some circumstances resignation could be mistaken for level-headedness. Remus smiled a thin-lipped smile that caused a Muggle in sunglasses with a Pret a Manger sandwich in his hand to leap out of his way. An image flooded back, unbidden: Bill Weasley, red hair fanned out around his head like an unholy halo, lay distorted amidst the detritus, and he, Remus, the only one who dared touch him, wiped the blood off his face. He could feel Fenrir Greyback on Bill’s skin, as he had sensed the werewolf’s presence in the castle ever since he’d entered it, the prey’s senses attuned to the predator. He had been the first one to touch Bill, not because he wasn’t scared of the curse, but because he had long resigned himself to it.

The sight of Bill in the hospital bed was, if anything, scarier. It was certainly more grotesque. Bill’s face disfigured by deep slashes and slathered with a greasy layer of green salve. The drawn faces of the people surrounding his bed. Dora’s grey face and bruised eyes, and – had that really happened? Remus snorted, and it felt nothing like laughing but rather like choking on a fizzy drink, as he recalled the absurd dialogue that had ensued between his now-fiancée and the older women who meant well. Running away had not been an option then, either. 

Dumbledore was dead. There. There it was, the one memory that should not be allowed to surface, not yet. He wasn’t sure yet what it meant, but he knew he would have to give careful thought some time soon.

The problem was, Remus thought as he entered a greasy spoon and ordered a full English breakfast in defiance of the nausea that lay coiled in the pit of his stomach, the problem was that the intricate structure that was the Order of the Phoenix had only ever worked on the basis of blind trust. He had always been adamant that they had to have implicit trust in Dumbledore’s judgment, every single one of them, because if they didn’t, the whole system would break apart.

He had forced himself to trust Severus. He had spent years forcing himself to trust Severus, because if he didn’t that meant he didn’t trust Dumbledore. And if he did not do that, he might just as well curl up and await Voldemort’s advent.

He put three spoons of sugar in his tea and stirred it, staring out of the window with unseeing eyes. It was necessary to unravel it step by step. There must be method in the madness, surely. Remus dropped the spoon and searched through his pockets. He pulled out a scrap of parchment and a Muggle-style pencil and wrote:

Dumbledore trusted Snape. -> Snape worked for the Order.  
I trusted Dumbledore. -> I trusted Snape  
Snape killed Dumbledore. ( _Snape. Killed. Dumbledore._ ) -> The Order killed Dumbledore.  
-> Dumbledore died for the good of the Order.

“It’s either that,” Remus whispered, “or the last fifteen years were meaningless.”

He stared at the words on the parchment as though willing them to rearrange themselves in a way that would make sense. They refused to cooperate, however, and he snapped back abruptly, leaned back in the chair and pushed his hair back from his eyes. Unravelling bizarre syllogistic puzzles was beyond his strength.

All of a sudden, another memory surfaced: he and Bill, talking one morning over coffee in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place and smoking those Muggle cigarettes Bill used to bring back from Egypt.

_"I like working on an assignment with you,” Bill had said. “No, really, I do. You're the only sensible person around here, apart from me and Kingsley."_

_"I'm glad you consider yourself sensible, Bill."_

_"Of course I do. And I would like you to know something," Bill looked up, all laughter gone from his brown eyes. "If something - when something happens: you and I will have to deal with it."_

_"Are you sure?"_

_"Certainly. Let's face it: I'm not saying they're not dedicated, but most of the others run around like headless chickens in the face of crisis. Dumbledore is more of a big picture man. Moody is mad, Snape is… Snape-"_

_"You don't trust him?"_

_"I don't like him._

_"That's not what I asked."_

_"I know. But because I don't like him, I don't trust my own judgement."_

_"That's very honest, Bill."_

_"What about you, then? Do you trust Snape?"_

_"Dumbledore does, and I trust Dumbledore."_

_"Just like that?"_

_"This is the only way that works."_

“Oh fuck,” muttered Remus.

2.  
It was a coward’s choice, perhaps, he was willing to admit as much. He should have stayed to help. But… but… there _was_ a strong argument to be made for hunting down Dumbledore’s killer. Everybody would understand if he explained that he had left the… the… whole mess behind (he would have to rephrase that, he could do that) to go after Snape in a fit of vengeful fury.

Remus’ hesitant steps gained spring and purpose as he walked on, slowly at first, then faster and faster. There was an advantage to being a Dark creature after all; he doubted that anyone but him would have been able to find Severus if Severus didn’t want to be found. They both shared something that no-one else in the Order understood. As spies for the Order, they routinely inhabited the no-man’s land between Light and Dark. (If Severus worked for the Order, _if_! But if he didn’t, there was no point to carry on anyway. The work of many years was void.) It was an elusive realm, one that did not offer many hiding places, and Remus sensed where to start.

3.  
Whatever one might think of Severus, he was not stupid. Remus knew with a bone-deep certainty that he would only ever find Severus if Severus wanted to be found. He was also sure that Severus did want to be found. Once he found Severus, his theory would be proved right. This reasoning, he knew, was anything but sound. He might be veering into the syllogistic terrain, he couldn’t quite tell. His brain didn’t work properly yet, but he was pretty confident that he was getting there. Having spent the previous day running on autopilot and adrenaline and having suffered through a night of alternating insomnia and nightmares, he had descended into a state of pleasant physical and mental exhaustion. The sensation was similar to the one he experienced when waking up after a Wolfsbane-aided transformation, the numbness of muscles and woolliness of thoughts a welcomed buffer against the real world. 

There was one place, one place that was painfully obvious, but Remus shied away from the idea of going there. Would Severus have gone there? Would he be so stupid? Or would he have considered it a daring stroke, a smart double bluff, guaranteed to keep him safe? Time was ticking away, Severus had had more than thirty-six hours to find a place to hide, to catch his breath, to hatch a plan. According to Harry, Draco Malfoy had been with him when he’d escaped. That fact rather limited his options: Remus was sure that Severus would not have taken Draco _there_. If he did go there, he would have dropped off Draco first, most likely at Malfoy Manor. Not even Severus would risk Narcissa’s rage if anything should happen to her son. 

Yes, Severus would make sure Draco was reunited with his mother as soon as possible. Remus had no doubt about that. If nothing else, he genuinely cared for the boy.

Once Severus had brought Draco home – what then? Would he ask for asylum at Malfoy Manor, too? He might if he worked for Voldemort. Remus didn’t know enough of the intricacies of the Malfoy household to guess whether Severus would be welcome there.

If he did not work for Voldemort ( _Why should he have killed Dumbledore if he didn’t work for Voldemort, why?_ ), he would not stay at Malfoy Manor. He would hide away ( _Harry might have been mistaken, he had been Petrified and possibly Confounded when it happened; in shock, certainly._ ) to lick his wounds. Remus didn’t make the mistake to believe that a wizard shed his humanity when he decided to go over to the Dark side. ( _After all, Peter had been all too human._ ) Whatever else he might be, Severus was still a man, and as such subject to the same agonies of the soul as everyone else. Like the Hogwarts teachers, like the Weasleys, like the Aurors, like Remus himself, he had run on a potent mixture of adrenaline and frenzy that were the result of a powerful magical outburst. He would have been in shock.

Remus was sure Severus would want to be alone.

4.  
Blazing sunlight hit him when he Apparated to a secluded spot tucked in between a hedge and a rickety wooden shelter in a cow pasture. Shading his eyes with one hand, he slowly walked around a serenely grazing cow that treated him to an indifferent look from vacant brown eyes, climbed over the kissing gate, dusted himself off and began to walk towards the village. He knew the way well from his annual visits to the place, but it had been a long time since he’d been there in summer. Dust rose under his feet and danced around him as he walked, brought to life by motion and light. The tall birch by the bend in the road that marked the spot where the field path met the tarmacked road glowed silver and green in the sunlight. He watched the shadows of trees tremble on the smooth grey surface of the road. He very deliberately did not look at what was in front of him until he reached the gates of the parish church. When he ducked into its shadow, it felt like diving into a pond of green water. The way across the graveyard was a shortcut, and Remus was determined to take it, even though… even though… He would not stop, not now. He wouldn’t so much as look in that direction.

Regardless from which direction he came, he would have to pass the war memorial that stood in the centre of the village square, facing a delicatessen in front of which a very fat man wearing a deerstalker and an apron boomed pleasantries at a customer. As Remus approached it, the war memorial blurred and shifted and assumed the shape of three figures so familiar to him. Remus didn’t particularly want to look at their faces, frozen in, as he thought, rather smug expressions for all eternity, but he walked closely enough past the statue to brush his fingertips across the smooth bronze surface.

He turned a corner, and another, and along a new and darker street he moved until he reached the ruins of the house that Muggles could not see. The Fidelius Charm had long been broken, but the house had been protected by other spells, too. 

The house had been yet another victim of Voldemort’s, on the night he had killed Lily and James. The rooms upstairs – Lily and James’ bedroom, the nursery – were completely destroyed. But the rooms downstairs had been quite preserved, Remus knew that because he had come back, later, after Lily and James and Peter had died and Sirius had been locked up in Azkaban, to search for traces of his friends in the rubble. He wasn’t supposed to do that – Dumbledore had warned them against going back to the Potters’ old home and had cast protective spells around it. The house, he had told them, should not become a place of pilgrimage; it was too dangerous, the magic that had destroyed it and the magic that had saved Harry would linger there still. They would seep out, and who knew what effects their combined fallout would have on witches and wizards who remained there too long?

After his initial visit, Remus had not gone back. The house was no longer the Potters’ home, and it was pointless to torment himself with memories, with thoughts of what-could-have-been. From a purely practical perspective, it was also quite difficult to get there, because Dumbledore’s protective spells could hurt a man who tried to break them if he let his attention slip.

But Dumbledore was dead now, and the power of his spells had weakened. Remus felt the magic buzz around him as he made his way slowly and carefully to the door that hung lopsidedly in its hinges. Severus was in there, his senses told him the moment the tips of his shoes touched the threshold. New spells had been added, powerful ones, _angry_ ones, spells that lacked subtlety and finesse, as though the wizard who had cast them wanted to fight rather than hide. Those spells were not meant to camouflage; they were meant to attack.

Remus pulled out his wand, twirled it between his fingers, and then he let his wand arm drop and knocked on the lopsided door with the knuckles of the other hand. He leaned against the door jamb with one shoulder and waited.

He was quite prepared to wait for hours, if need be. Out there, in the real world, there was nothing he particularly wanted to rush back to.

To his surprise, the door opened. It creaked, of course, as he passed through it from the blistering afternoon sun into dusty half-light, and Remus’ lips thinned in an almost-smile. Severus had a rather artistic flair for conjuring up an atmosphere of dread. He entered, holding his wand aloft, but not threateningly so. Prepared to defend himself, not to attack. Even though every heave of his pulse urged him on to rip apart the man who had murdered Dumbledore, it was answers he wanted in the first place. ‘Sirius,’ he thought suddenly, ‘would not have understood.’

Dust-soaked cobwebs fluttered above his head, floorboards creaked under his feet, and something that Remus could have sworn was a bat rustled in a corner of the ceiling. A few steps along the cluttered hallway took him to the sitting room, and he pushed open the door.

Severus was sitting in a tall armchair by the fireplace, his head tilted back, his arms aligned along the armrests, his eyes black windows to hell. His wand rested on the coffee table in front of him, pointing straight at the door. The top buttons of his waistcoat were undone and his shirt fell open at his throat. Behind him, his black cloak had been slung over the side of the mantelpiece, and the blank Death Eater mask peeped out from beneath the heavy folds. Severus held a cigarette between the index and the middle finger of his left hand and exhaled a trail of smoke. He was quite still, like a viper.

Remus took a few steps into the room and stopped. “Severus,” he said lightly, “how good of you to let me in. I see it didn’t take you long to make yourself at home.”

Something primal inside him screamed for blood, and he quenched it. 

“How quick,” Severus said, “how quick do you think you would have to be with your wand and a curse?” Their gazes remained locked, neither flickered to Severus’ wand on the coffee table.

“Very quick, I should imagine,” said Remus. “But then, I am.”

“Certainly quicker than that imbecile-“ Snape began, and Remus’ blood heaved. _If he says ‘Dumbledore’, I will kill him._

“…that imbecile Harry,” said Severus, and the red mist lifted.

“You know, I’ve never dreamed of hearing you refer to him by his first name,” Remus said.

One corner of Severus’ mouth twitched, the first sign of life in the blank white face. “I wished to avoid ambiguity,” he said.

“Did you,” said Remus, very pleasantly. “That’s a quite a new approach, Severus. What happened?”

There it was again, a flicker of life in a face that was a mask of marble. The room was filled with more shadows that should have rightfully been there, and the air was thick with magic – the potential of spells rather than spells themselves. Remus was struck once again with how effortlessly Severus made a room his when he chose to take possession of it. Lily and James Potter, the people who had lived there, had been a family there, had died there, were gone. There was just Severus Snape.

“You know what happened, Lupin,” said Severus, barely moving his lips, yet enunciating clearly and deliberately. “I killed Dumbledore.” Smooth and venomous, the words slithered at Remus like a snake. 

Remus steadied his wand arm, afraid that his hand might shake. “Give me one reason,” he whispered, “one reason why I should not kill you on the spot.”

“Cast an Unforgivable, Lupin? And risk a life sentence in Azkaban? Would you really do that?” As he spoke, Snape had leaned in and the tension that had been holding him together only now became apparent in the slant of his upper body, the angle of his neck, the unnatural tilt of his shoulders. 

“If it’s worth it.”

“Is it worth it?”

Something about the tone of Snape’s voice and about his posture evoke a connotation that Remus could not quite place. He could see that Snape was trying to tell him something and he kicked his brain forcefully into gear. Somewhere along the way between the lopsided door and the coffee table, the woollen dullness had lifted and his mind was his own again. He knew it, then: Severus was baiting him. He wanted Remus to kill him, because that would mean an end for which he would not have to take responsibility.

Remus knew everything about shirking responsibility, and he also knew – instincts and reactions trained to perfection – how to resist a bait. He lowered his wand arm and smiled, broadly, showing his teeth.

“No. No, it is not,” he said. _You_ are not.

Snape’s eyes flashed and then narrowed. Another sign of life, Remus noted with detached curiosity. The mask was beginning to melt away, it would be interesting to see what happened when it was gone. 

“I knew you didn’t have it in you, Lupin.” With his black eyes burning and his black hair falling across the white face Severus looked like a medieval woodcut come to life. His voice was smooth and silky still, yet there was a brittleness in it, too, which told Remus that the man facing him was teetering on the edge of despair. He was taunting Remus openly now, the snarl in his voice getting more pronounced with every word. “You have never been man enough to take another wizard’s life. Not in your human form.”

Remus shook his head. “Do not make the mistake to take my kindness for weakness, Severus. It is not I who will spend the rest of his life in Azkaban.”

Severus smirked, openly and unmistakably. 

“Of course!” Remus said. “That wouldn’t be much of a punishment, would it, Severus? Not now, not with Azkaban under new rule and the Dementors on the loose. I didn’t think that through.”

“Obviously,” Severus’ mouth curled in disdain. “Did you think anything through before you came here, Lupin? Or did you come in charging in the usual Gryffindor fashion, without a plan?”

“Did you?” asked Remus.

Instead of an answer, Severus suddenly flicked his hand, hissing. The cigarette had just burnt down and scorched his fingers. He let it drop to the floor and brought his hand up to his lips - the instinctive reaction of any man, wizard or Muggle, who had hurt himself. The gesture was so unexpected and incongruous that Remus snorted with laughter. Severus shot him an angry look, flushing. Oh, but he did hate ridicule.

Remus pulled himself together. “I think we have to agree, Severus, that neither of us currently has a plan. What plans there had been, they were upset two nights ago.” And as Severus remained silent, he added: “What are you going to do now, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Severus seemed to honestly consider the question. “There are… options,” he said at last. “However, I won’t share them with you, Lupin. Just because you and I have been forced to work side by side by a man who,” his voice snagged for a fraction of a second, “who has recognised our usefulness, doesn’t mean that we are forever united in a brotherhood of trust. The reason why you were invited to join the Order was, because Dumbledore had use for a tame werewolf, a potential killer. He kept you, because you served a purpose."

"Ditto, Severus."

And just like that, everything fell into place. Remus’ knees actually gave way under him and he sank down into the nearest armchair. He _knew_. “Oh my god,” he said softly. “Oh _god_!” As he buried his face in his hands, quite helpless and unable to stop himself, he heard a muffled not-quite cry, not-quite sob. 

His blood pounding in his ears, Remus forced himself to breathe evenly until he felt he could raise his head again. “Why-” he said, choked and pressed a hand to his mouth. “He did… He made…” He stopped himself from spluttering out more disjointed words.

Severus was staring at him wide-eyed, breathing as though he had just run the length of a Quidditch pitch. Without saying a word, he shook his head with a vehemence that sent his hair in disarray so that it obscured his eyes. Remus could tell that Severus was shaking just as much as he was. His mind reeled with dozens of questions, but at that moment, Remus could only think of one that was worth asking.

“Do you have anything to drink?”

Severus’ shoulders jerked as though he were about to laugh. He turned the motion into a shrug, picked up his wand and gave it an impatient twirl. A bottle of firewhisky and two tumblers materialised on the table, and, having shifted his armchair closer, Remus reached for one of them. He raised the glass and held it against the light pouring in through the front window. An oppressive band that lay around his chest was sending jets of fire up to his throat and down to his stomach. He longed for the firewhisky to soothe the burning sensation.

“To Albus,” he whispered without looking at Severus. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the other man raise his glass likewise. They drank in silence.

There were dozens of questions to be asked, but Remus suddenly found he did not care to hear the answers. One answer he had already guessed, and that was the big one, the main one. Compared to it, the others were immaterial. More importantly, in the unlikely event that he was wrong, he found he did not want to know the truth after all. He’d rather continue deceiving himself.

To his surprise, it was Severus who broke the silence. “Is _this_ why you tracked me down, Lupin?” he asked, indicating the glass of firewhisky. His voice had regained its customary velvety quality. 

“Hardly,” Remus frowned at the tumbler in his hand. “I’m merely making the best of a dire situation.”

“What an admirably positive attitude,” Severus muttered, draining his glass and instantly refilling both glasses with a flick of his wand.

“Harry,” Remus began, cleared his throat, and continued, “Harry said Draco Malfoy was with you when… you left. What happened to him?”

“He’s safe.”

“I’ve never doubted it for a second. And what about you?” He suddenly thought of something that had not occurred to him previously and which would explain Severus’ unnaturally tense posture, his spare movements. “Were you hurt?”

“I was not. Potter,” he spat the name in the old familiar fashion that made Remus smile. It was strangely comforting. It reminded him of how, during his year as a teacher at Hogwarts, he’d enjoyed riling Severus on every turn. Had that really been only three years ago? “Potter,” Severus was saying, “was the only one who followed me. He wasn’t exactly difficult to fend off. One might think that boy has learned absolutely nothing, he’s got no self-control, no finesse, no timing, no ability of casting non-verbal spells. Until he learns, he stands no chance against the Dark Lord. You tell him that from me, Lupin.” Snape had assumed a mocking tone, but Remus wasn’t fooled.

“Thank you, Severus, I will,” he nodded. 

They drank another glass in silence. At some point, Severus had lit another cigarette; he offered Remus one, and Remus accepted it. He wasn’t an enthusiastic smoker by any means, but there was something about the ritual of sharing a smoke with another person that had a calming effect on his nerves. The band around his chest kept contracting and vanishing. One moment, it was almost impossible to breathe, and that was when he kept the smoke in his lungs, struggling to exhale as slowly as possible. The next moment, the pressure would lift and an odd calm descended over him. It was exhausting, he could not trust himself to feel the right thing. He was stumbling around in a fog without a compass, unable to ascertain whether the situation was utterly hopeless or quite manageable.

“Do you know what you are going to do now?” He frowned as he belatedly realised that he’d asked that question before.

“Right now?” Severus tipped his head back to drain his glass in one last gulp. “I’m going to bed.” He licked the last traces of the firewhisky off his lips and stood up. “What about you?”

“I’m not sure I can sleep,” Remus said. “I think I did get some sleep last night, but I wouldn’t swear to it. I remember dreaming, that could have been waking nightmares, though. I certainly spent the whole of this morning staggering around in a daze, my head filled with cotton wool.”

“Lupin,” said Severus, and the familiar edge in his voice was reassuring, “if I wanted to endure a litany of nonsense, I’d have served you Babbling Beverage instead of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky.”

“Oh, yes, you’re quite right. My apologies, Severus. I think,” he stood up likewise so that he could look Severus straight in the eye. “I think I’m drunk. Aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you slept at all since…” Remus found himself whispering. They were staring at each other across the coffee table and it suddenly seemed like no distance at all.

“No.”

That took him by surprise, as Remus had not really expected him to answer. He had never been scared of Severus before, but the man’s odd mood worried him. Severus was volatile at the best of times. Right now, he was capable of anything.

 _Do you want me to go_? Like all the other questions that Remus had wanted to ask, this one, too, hung between them unspoken. Quite aware of the absurdity of the situation, he yet remained cushioned against it by the mixture of disorientation and alcohol. Severus feared and loathed him, he knew that, and yet… Severus was not immune against the raw human need for companionship and comfort, and Remus found that notion strangely appealing. 

“Where will you sleep?” he asked matter-of-factly, as though that were the actual issue at hand.

Severus shot him a condescending look and waved his wand with an elegant, careless flick of his wrist. A bed appeared in the place of the old sofa. A double bed, as Remus noticed with some amusement. He swallowed down the laughter that bubbled up inside his chest. He might argue with Severus, fight with Severus, duel with Severus – but he must never, under any circumstances, give Severus the impression that he laughed at anything Severus did. 

Certainly not under these circumstances, bizarre though they were.

“How good are your protective spells?” he asked instead.

The condescending look was back. “What do you think, Lupin?”

“I got in easily.”

“I let you in.”

 _Why_?

Another question that would forever remain unasked. Remus was getting fed up with them. For the first time in years, he wished he’d shared something of Sirius’ temperament: brash and impetuous, he would never think twice, never stop himself from asking ( _taking_ ) what he wanted, never second-guess his every step. 

Instead he said, very solemnly: “Thank you, Severus.”

Their gazes locked again for an endless one, two, three heartbeats longer. Severus broke the connection first as he turned away and started to unbutton his waistcoat. Remus blinked; he wasn’t sure – he couldn’t be sure – but he thought that Severus’ fingers were shaking. Well, that was it.

Without giving himself time to second-guess himself, he stepped deftly around the coffee table. “Permit me,” he said, lowering his hands onto Severus’ chest. The fabric of his waistcoat was surprisingly soft to the touch. Remus ran the back of his index finger down along the long line of buttons. “This is very good quality,” he said in a steady voice. “Where do you buy your clothes?”

Severus’ black eyes told him very clearly what he thought of Remus’ conversational gambit. Remus raised his eyebrows in unspoken challenge. It was amazing and also rather embarrassing how quickly his body had adjusted to the bizarre situation in which it had found itself. His heart raced and his groin had tightened, and he deliberately focused on the sensory information conveyed by his fingertips, on the scent that filled his nostrils now that he stood merely inches from Severus, to stop his brain interfering with the once-in-a-lifetime experience that was imminent. He wished it were not broad daylight; they were both just enough drunk, that was good, that took the edge off, and they were alone in a safe house with a bed, but the light was an unnecessary obstacle. It revealed too much.

As though he had been reading Remus’ thoughts, Severus flicked his wand once again, and darkness descended over them. Even though summer was still in full bloom outside the window, its light did not permeate; it was quite locked out. Inside the dim room, Remus’ sensed heightened instantly, honed after years and years of living in continuous suspense. He could see only a sliver of Severus’ face, white as it was, whilst the rest of his black-clad figure merged with the shadows. He could hear his breathing, though, sharp and quick, and he could smell him, _god_ , could he smell him. 

Remus moved his hand and pressed his palm against Severus’ chest. It was warm and firm and oh so alive. The truly dizzying thing was: Severus did not push him back. He did not step closer, but he did not back away, either, and he certainly did not make any attempt to swat Remus’s hand away or to hex him. Remus briefly wondered what the turning point had been. When, exactly, had he known what would happen, what was about to happen? When had Severus realised it? There was no backing out now, the bed was only a few paces away, and they were touching each other in a manner that could not be mistaken for accidental or explained away.

For Severus had closed his hand around Remus’ hipbone and was holding him in a firm grip. His thumb, pressed against the string of muscles that ran down Remus’ abdomen, was moving in small demanding circles. Remus wished they were naked already, and in bed. Naked, in bed, the situation could not be construed as ambiguous. As long as they were simply standing there, fully clothed and merely touching each other across a distance, one of them would have to make the decisive move. Neither of them was quite prepared to do that.

“Oh, _fuck_!”

A wave of heat and arousal washed over Remus, leaving him drenched in his own sweat and shaking. There was nothing, _nothing_ more arousing than hearing Severus utter the word ‘fuck’. His voice, so deep and rich and silky, was a palpable caress. In combination with the sharp Germanic syllable, the effect was devastating. Remus groaned, unable to stop himself, and leaned in, pressing his face into the crook of Severus’ neck.

And, _oh_ , Severus stepped forward, too, into Remus’ embrace, and they were standing there, holding each other, holding on to each other, as though their lives depended on it. This was madness. This was the very essence of madness. He would never be able to talk about this, it was the most intensely private thing he would ever do in his adult life. Up until this moment, his biggest secret had been the werewolf curse, and plenty of people knew about that. But this, _this_ … the fact that he was about to have sex with Severus… this would remain his own forever.

Severus turned his head and sighed into Remus’ ear, and that was it. In the next moment, they stumbled against the bed, kissing furiously and tugging at each other’s clothes. Remus managed to manoeuver Severus against the edge of the bed and pushed him, and they both fell in a tangle of limbs. Kissing Severus as he did, open-mouthed and breathless, Remus prayed for passion to block out all other emotions; he didn’t want to think, and he didn’t want to feel anything but lust for the man in his arms. He pulled back long enough to unbutton Severus’ waistcoat, one button after the other. There were dozens of them, and he wanted to relish the sensation of uncovering – of _dis_ covering – Severus bit by bit. 

There went the waistcoat, and then there was the white shirt to deal with, intricate lacings and cufflinks and all. The shirt was beautiful, and Severus made the loveliest noises when Remus peeled the garment away: delicate little moans in the back of his throat and the occasional groan when Remus found the right spot to kiss or lick. Remus learned that Severus was one of those people who would always smell clean; even though he had been on the run for over thirty-six hours, there was something pristine about him. Remus licked down the length of his neck, along the jut of the collarbone and the curve down to his armpit, and he relished the taste of salty skin under his tongue. 

“Ah!” Severus’ torso and hips came off the bed as Remus trailed his nails down his flanks. “Slow down. Lupin.”

Remus stilled his hands against the other man’s hips. “Sorry,” he whispered. And then, the laughter that had been building up all that time finally burst out, and Remus collapsed in a helpless heap on top of Severus. “I am sorry,” he reiterated when the last hysterical ripples subsided. Severus had not moved. He was simply lying there with averted face. One of his hands rested on Remus’ back, which Remus took for a good sign.

“I am sorry I’ve spoilt it, but you’ve got to admit this is insane.”

“You don’t have to do this, Lupin,” said Severus in clipped tones. “I haven’t asked you to. And I certainly won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Hm.” Remus rolled off and stretched out alongside Severus, watching his haughty profile as he spoke. “That’s not what I meant. I know that you haven’t. And that you wouldn’t. I’ve got a higher opinion of you than you think, you know.” That was true. He had never felt the need to antagonise Severus the way James and Sirius had done, and he had always been prepared to admit that Severus was a very intelligent man and a powerful wizard. 

A shudder ran through Severus’ body at those words. It seemed for a moment that he would say something in reply, but in the end, he thought better of it. His determined silence weighed down on Remus bodily, and irritation and anger returned with full force, coupled with physical frustration as he was being denied the purely animal comfort his body was craving. Something inside him snapped.

“I will never forgive you for killing Albus, though.”

Severus’ mask dissolved. Just like that, his face came to life, wrung by too many emotions at once. When he spoke, the words were an agonised croak. “Believe me, you are not the only one.”

Remus, who had been just about to roll away and get up, stopped dead. The anguish radiating from Severus took his breath away. His own anger drained away and the pain was back, physical pain that burnt his skin and tied his stomach into a tight knot. “What _are_ you going to do?” He whispered the question, because he didn’t trust his voice. 

Beside him, Severus shrugged – the gesture a concession of vulnerability and defeat. As his arm brushed against Remus’, Remus grasped his hand and pressed it to his chest. “There is nothing I can do, I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“There’s only this.” He ran his thumb along the length of Severus’ curved finger, coaxing open the clenched hand, and then caressed the inside of Severus’ palm.

“Yes.”

As Remus leaned back in with a sigh, Severus met him eagerly, pulling him down into a kiss that was less ferocious, less urgent, but deeper and more deliberate than before. This time round, they found their rhythm instantly. Remus moved his hands confidently along Severus’ body, kissing his way down to the waistband of his trousers. Severus’ fingers, entangled in his hair, twitched whenever Remus hit a tender spot. He let go when Remus lifted his head. Their eyes met, and Remus’ heart leapt into his throat when he saw the other’s open, raw face, and he knew that the expression mirrored his own. There were no defences there, on either side. 

He watched Severus’ face as his fingers alighted on the buttons of his trousers, watched his eyes widen and his head fall back. Pressing the flat of his hand against Severus’ cock, Remus rubbed it slowly down and then back up through the fabric. Severus’ stomach fluttered; Remus leaned in and breathed against the fine hairs there, breathed in the heat that rose from Severus’ skin, and he relished the way Severus squirmed and gasped and groped blindly for Remus with a long-fingered hand.

“Remus. Come here.” Severus’ voice was a velvety sensation that enveloped Remus wholly. He groaned, impossibly aroused by the sound of his own name from Severus’ mouth. Severus pulled him into his arms and Remus let himself fall, for once thinking nothing. He was dizzy with lust, and the man beneath him was kissing him deeply, tugging their both clothes off, gasping into his mouth, and then, just when it all became too much, Severus snaked a hand between their bodies and wrapped it around Remus’ cock. Remus’ hips jerked against him, hard. “Slow. Slow down,” gasped Severus.

“I can’t.” Remus nestled his heated face into Severus’s shoulder. He laughed shakily. “Really, I can’t.” Severus’ shoulder, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, was pleasantly cool.

“Well…” Severus said, “in this case,” he moved his hand gently up and down, “I will have to stop.” He pulled his hand back. Remus grabbed his wrist.

“I won’t come, not yet,” he said hastily, pushing Severus’ hand back down. “Not if you keep up this pace.” He shifted his hips to slide his cock against Severus’, willing him to take them both into his hand. And then, Severus did. They rubbed against each other, slick with sweat in every spot where their bodies touched: thighs, and stomachs and chests. Severus’ mouth, for once not twisted into a sneer, but open, generous, left hot marks on Remus’ neck. His skin erupted in goose bumps where Severus’ hair brushed over it. The world had narrowed down to this room, this bed, this man who filled out his senses completely. Intense tingling spread from the small of his back, along his loins, and pooled into his groin where Severus’ hand maintained a lazy, steady rhythm. Severus was guiding them both towards a climax that would surely erupt from the very marrow of their bones. And just as he thought that was it, he could take the pressure no longer, Severus’ body tensed, uncoiled and he flipped them both over. Remus groaned and locked Severus’ arm in a firm grip as Severus straightened up into a half-kneeling position between Remus’ legs. “No,” gasped Remus. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not,” said Severus with wild eyes. “Just, like this-” and then his hand was back, firm and slick, and he ground his pelvis into the cradle between Remus’ thighs. He hooked his free hand under Remus’ knee and pulled him closer. Remus clung to him, groaning. He had known Severus to be a passionate man, but this sudden savage onslaught exceeded his wildest expectations. Through the pounding of the blood in his ears, he could hear Severus gasp out a string of profanities, and then a wave of heat washed over him and he sank backwards into darkness. Above him, Severus buckled, cursed and collapsed with a deep groan.

5.  
Floating back from the welcome oblivion of dreamless sleep, Remus became aware of something tickling his nose and of how itchy his skin was, irritated by sweat-soaked hairs. Severus rested atop him bonelessly, one hand trapped between them, the other… Remus looked down along the length of his own arm and wriggled his fingers. He had not noticed when Severus had taken his hand, but he was clinging to it now, quite firmly, the long pale fingers with the broad knuckles interlaced with Remus’ own. The tenderness of the gesture broke Remus’ heart. “You bastard,” he mouthed into the black hair. “Why did you do it?”

As though Remus’ barely whispered words had woken him, Severus began to stir. His hipbone momentarily dug into Remus’ stomach and they both grimaced when they pulled apart, stuck together as they had been by sweat and sperm. “Ouch!” Severus hissed as he disentangled himself. He rolled off Remus cautiously and Remus held his breath, hit by sudden cold. This madness could not last, he knew that, and yet… he felt the loss of contact keenly. It had been too good to let go. He would have to, eventually, but not yet, please not _yet_. 

“Oh,” Severus sighed when Remus’ fingers brushed across the nape of his neck and down to his shoulder blades. Remus’ heart fluttered. Severus was not pulling away after all, he was simply trying to get more comfortable. Relief surged though him, the arm slung around Severus’ shoulders tightened of its own accord. Muscle memory was at work here, Remus’ body remembered what had felt good and tried to cling to that sensation as long as possible. There was freedom in the fact that this wasn’t love, not even lust, that it was raw need that brought them together. It meant that there were no expectations, no obligations, no responsibilities. There was only the feel of skin on skin, the rasp of the hairs on Severus’ chest and legs against his own, the weight of his erection against Remus’ thigh. Severus’ head was heavy, and the bones of his skull dug into Remus’ shoulder. They were not quite comfortable, their bodies did not align well, but neither of them minded. Severus was dragging his fingers along Remus’ stomach and chest, tapped an erratic rhythm on his ribcage, and gripped him around the throat, applying just enough pressure to make Remus swallow. Outside the window, dusk fell; inside, the darkness deepened, enveloping them in a mantle of companionship and silence. The conspiratorial character of their encounter added to their arousal.

“Mmmh,” Severus sighed against his neck. It was not quite a kiss, the teasing slide of lips on skin, yet it was enough to send Remus’ body a-shudder. The teasing lips slid lower, and Remus’ bones liquefied. Trembling and heavy-limbed, he melted into the mattress under Severus’ roving hands and mouth. There was one heart-stopping moment when the weight atop of him lifted, hands and mouth suddenly removed, and he croaked out a weak sound of protest. But Severus had merely stopped to shake his hair away from his face, his gaze locked momentarily with Remus’, and bent his head again to take Remus’ cock into his mouth. 

“Fuck!” The hairs on Remus’ stomach stood up with a rush of electrifying pleasure so powerful that he sat up from the sensation. Resting just above the juts of his hipbones, Severus’ hands tightened, forcing him back down and holding him there. Between the bruising grip and the sucking mouth, he was rendered utterly helpless, his senses overloaded as though the moon was upon him, forcing his body into submission. Severus’ tongue slid lazily along, around, underneath and over his cock, as if seeking to soothe rather than to excite him. And Remus gave in, relaxing under the heat and abandoning himself to the pressure. The hands above his hips stirred, released their grip, caressed his sweat-coated stomach and flanks. One hand slithered down his thigh and slipped between his legs. Severus cupped him gently, steadying him, anchoring him, and then he sucked him all the way in, and that was it. He didn’t stop, didn’t raise his head again until Remus came in shuddering bursts into his mouth.

His skin was thrumming with the aftermath of his orgasm when Severus came back up and stretched out beside him, trapping his heavy erection between their bodies. “Give me a minute,” Remus breathed into the darkness. “Just a minute, to catch my breath, and I’ll reciprocate.”

“Hmm…” Severus seemed determined not to talk. He lay quite still with his hand on Remus’ ribs, beneath which Remus’ heartbeat was slowing down, throb after throb after throb. The temptation to give in to the numbness that descended over him and to go to sleep was overwhelming. As though he had sensed it, Severus moved all of a sudden and straddled Remus’ chest. A jolt ran through Remus when Severus’ cock nudged his lips. He was very hard. Remus swiped across the silky tip with the flat of his tongue. Trapped between Severus’ legs, Remus could only just see the contours of his body, his white face, and he heard him panting when he swirled his tongue around the tip of his cock. He could tell, by the way Severus’ stomach muscles tensed and his thighs trembled, that he was hovering on the brink of orgasm. But not yet. He would make him last for as long as possible. He would make the best of the few hours that they had.

6.  
The next time he woke, Remus was quite alone. The sheets were a tangle around his legs, glowing white in the morning light. Severus must have lifted the charm that had covered the room in darkness and it would appear they had slept through the night. When he looked down on himself, he could see that his skin was still flushed in several places. Not surprisingly, Severus was nowhere to be seen. Remus had not expected him to linger. Sharing a night of passion with Severus had been ludicrous enough; the idea of having a casual conversation over breakfast and coffee on the morning after was unconceivable. 

He had barely finished dressing when a sudden noise from the hallway startled him into alertness. A second later, Severus appeared in the door, immaculately dressed and buttoned up, and he raised his eyebrows at the sight of Remus’ poised wand. 

“Are we back to this?” he asked, his voice quite impassionate.

“I thought you’d left,” said Remus and lowered his arm.

“Naturally.” Severus regarded him coolly. “What are you going to do, Lupin? You came here to kill me, if you remember.”

There it was again, the half-sneering, half-desperate tone that broke Remus’ heart. He could not muster any anger, he couldn’t even be bothered to pretend. 

“There’s no point, is there?” he said softly. “It’s not as though I’m letting you go free. We are both dead men walking.”

A pale smile flickered and died in the white face. Neither of them spoke another word as the defences came back up. Remus knew that the look in Severus’ eyes would haunt him forever. 

“I’ve got to go,” Severus said at last. 

“I know. So have I.”

“I won’t be coming to the funeral.” 

Nothing Severus could say would ever provoke him into anger, no matter with how much mockery he attempted to infuse his voice. “No.”

“Goodbye… Remus.” And with a swish of his robes, he was gone, leaving Remus behind, sick and shivering and desperate for the woollen numbness that had dimmed his wits and senses the day before. 

“Goodbye,” he whispered, his eyes fixed at the door. “Take care, Severus.”


End file.
